Tonight the moon has donned a copper blindfold
"I am up to no good" she says
"Planting a half voice in a cocked ear and bindweed in a pretty garden where there ought be none"
"I have winked my dark eye and tipped out all the city lights one by one."
"You are living in a mad place" she says, over the shoulder
And turns like a glass bauble backlit from 45 degrees
She is a gold backed beetle on a slow march across the sky
Not a globe but a bright coin dropped, spinning and spinning, deceiving the eye
A much thumbed compass filled with tiny cogs and dials that make the seas jibe
"I am up to no good" she says
As if she were alive
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